


Hanging in the Balance

by shealynn88



Category: Constantine
Genre: F/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to leobrat and monimala who selflessly gave of their time to ease my stressed out self and make this presentable.  :)  You guys rock.<br/>Also a big thank you to my recipient, who gave me great ideas and lots of leeway. *hugs*  I hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Hanging in the Balance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meg WHITE](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Meg+WHITE).



> Thanks to leobrat and monimala who selflessly gave of their time to ease my stressed out self and make this presentable. :) You guys rock.  
> Also a big thank you to my recipient, who gave me great ideas and lots of leeway. *hugs* I hope you enjoy!

 

 

The sun beats down relentlessly, drinking the sweat from John's skin before it ever has a chance to cool him.

Damn them, they love this weather. John imagines it reminds them of Hell.

It's the same reason he hates it.

It helps that the people here are poor and desperate. It's easier to whisper across the desert, easier to tempt with the sweet-sounding poison of vague promises.

And that's why he's here.

Its day three of the ritual, and the exhaustion is bone-deep. He prefers the quick and dirty ones--mirrors and tricks, brute force if that doesn't work--but that doesn't get rid of all of them. Certainly not this one.

Patience is the only weapon he has left now, and it's wearing thin.

He glances at his watch, adjusting the strap out of habit. It covers two scars now. The newest one is so fine it's barely noticeable.

Lucifer doesn't do anything halfway.

John shakes his head and steps forward, sketching a symbol in the air that makes the frail child scream. He feels the energy in the circle waver and nods, hiding his desperate relief. "Tonight," he tells the old man standing guard; then he paces to his tent for some much-needed rest.

God, he can't wait to get back to the States.

* * *

The papers call him 'The Surgeon.' It doesn't begin to describe the horror of what he does. Angela's seen it twice now, and it's enough to convince her that no price is too steep to keep it from happening again.

She closes her eyes, trying to stop the memories from flooding her again. Memories of blank eyes and bowls carved with bird-like sigils. Bowls filled with congealing blood and sharp scented herbs.

Angela shakes her head to clear it and then waves the team through the warehouse door. They fan out beside her and disappear into the shadows.

She waits until her impressions of them fade, and there he is. She feels him like a stain on her soul, a pool of black in a world that shimmers lightly around her.

She pads up the stairs silently. He hasn't noticed her yet, and it's unlikely that he will. He's concentrating on something; she doesn't want to know anything more than that. She doesn't want to be inside his head.

Now that she's stopped fighting her instincts, it's easier to find the control, easier to sense them, easier to know. Where they are, where to aim, when to fire.

It's easy, and that scares her almost as much as what this monster has done to three little girls. But fear doesn't keep her from being fiercely glad when she squeezes the trigger and he drops to his knees. She watches intensely until he falls forward and his blood seeps across the floor like spilled ink.

Now that it's done, her hands shake and she's vaguely nauseous.

Cale Hunter is the third person she's killed in the last two weeks.

It's getting worse.

It's getting _easier._

* * *

John feels drained. Empty. But he doesn't want to stay in the desert any longer than he absolutely has to--it brings back too many dark memories.

There is some satisfaction in watching the girl's mother nurse her back to health, but it's brief. The cynic in him says it's only a matter of time before she's someone else's slave.

He has no choice but to shrug it off. The human monsters aren't his problem.

Thank God he's leaving. The walk to the airport is long, but he's headed toward milder weather and that's all that matters.

"Jevin," he greets quietly, nodding at the old man as he ducks into the cabin of the four-seater.

"Be a few, Mr. Constantine. Got some fancy Hollywood types flying in."

John watches another small plane roll to a halt nearby. The first person off the plane is a thin woman with long hair and a carefully sculpted figure. The heavy round glasses and the hand-tailored clothes are a dead giveaway for fame. But the woman helps her crew unload box after box--food, clothing, medical supplies.

John smiles, feeling the slightest hint of optimism. It's about time the rich bastards started doing something worthwhile.

The cynic in him says it means trouble.

* * *

Angela's stomach roils as she enters the club. It smells of sulfur and earth and a metallic undercurrent of blood. She swallows hard and lifts her chin in determination as she weaves her way through the half-breeds.

For two weeks, now, she's felt the itch of being watched...but not like this. These people, these _things,_ watch her with eyes that flash red like an animal's. They watch her like she's food.

The man at the bottom of the stairs smells of decay. Angela tries not to look too closely. There's something wrong with him--something dead in his eyes, something awkward and eerie about the way that he moves.

But it doesn't matter. He's just the doorway, and she needs help.

When the man holds up a card, she closes her eyes to focus. The answer comes in a whisper, like leaves on the wind. " _Two doves with one tail._ "

She repeats it under her breath and opens her eyes.

For a moment she thinks he's going to refuse, and then suddenly he unhooks the velvet rope and steps aside.

She swallows again as she slides by him and opens the padded door.

* * *

They land in New York, and John takes a deep breath of the cool, crisp air. It's a relief to be back in a place where everything is growing and moving, and the people aren't all waiting for him to provide a miracle. No one knows who he is here, and that's a relief.

He picks up a paper on his way to the hotel--he's looking forward to a long night's sleep, even if is only a short pause in a life of cryptic messages, odd feelings and battles that never end. He has to take these moments where he can get them.

On the third page of the paper, past the horror in third world countries and the obligatory politics, John finds articles about the sudden generosity of the west coast. Hospitals are being built, soup kitchens are overflowing with food, low-income housing is popping up all over L.A. The editorial encourages New Yorkers to open their hearts and wallets as Christmas approaches.

John closes the paper and stares out the window at a sea of lights.

He can't shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong.

* * *

She can't seem to get Midnite to understand. "There's something wrong out there," she tries again. "The crime rate is up; the violence is...it's out of control! It's not just the people...something's behind it."

Midnite shakes his head as he leans back in his chair and takes a long pull from his cigar. "I am not concerned with the petty games of either side. They are in balance. That is what I do. _That_ is what I am concerned with."

Angela doesn't want to get angry. She knows, somehow, that would be a bad idea. But she can't quite keep the frustration out of her voice. "People are dying out there. It's getting worse. I just need a _direction_ \--"

He cuts her off with a sharp, chopping motion. "I cannot help you. The forces are balanced."

Her jaw clenches and she can't hold the anger down anymore. "You don't understand! I need your help!" She stalks forward. "There's something wrong here, something that needs someone like you--someone who knows where to look. You were a friend of John's, you _know_ \--" She stops as he stands abruptly and she remembers too late that he's extraordinarily powerful.

"Enough! You may be a friend of Constantine's, but that does not give you leave to command me. You _will_ leave. I will not ask again." Smoke curls around his face as he leans forward threateningly; his eyes are hard.

Angela turns stiffly before she makes it worse.

It seems she'll have to call John after all.

* * *

John hates to dream. There are too many regrets that come to visit him in the dark hours...

"There's trouble, John," Chas says. He's sitting cross-legged, hovering about four feet off the floor and watching his hands with detached interest. He looks more like a mystic than an angel--if mystics wear cabbie caps and jeans with too many pockets. "She needs you."

Chas lifts his head, and his eyes flash silver in the low light.

Then he's gone, and the room is darker.

Father Hennessey is staring out an opaque window. When he spins around, John flinches. Hennessey's hand is covered in blood.

John expects some cryptic mumbling--Hennessey was always good at that--but when his old friend finally opens his mouth all John can hear is a vague, repetitive buzz.

* * *

She stares at his name for a long moment before hitting speed dial. _John._

"Call if you need anything," he'd told her quietly before he had left. He'd sounded like he meant it, had given special emphasis to the 'anything' as if she could call him about the weather or to complain about work.

But his real meaning, she knows, was, "Call me if the world's ending."

Well, it's not ending yet, but she's not sure he'll have much to come back to if she doesn't tell him what's happening. There's no way he can consider it a social call.

Even so, her hands shake as she raises the phone to her ear.

"Constantine."

He answers like a cop.

She doesn't know quite where to begin. Finally, she just says, "John, it's Angela."

She feels him still. For a second, she thinks she lost the connection.

Then he's back, quiet and urgent. "Angela. What's wrong?"

* * *

She meets him at the airport. The first thing she notices is how tired he looks. His face is drawn, his eyes are sunken, and she wishes suddenly that she'd picked up the phone before this, when there would have been time for pleasantries.

He nods at her, and she's not sure what to do. Nod back? Shake his hand? She wants to throw her arms around him and tell him that he looks terrible and needs sleep, but she doesn't.

Finally, she touches his arm. "Come on. I called a cab."

He flinches a little, and she remembers the boy who used to drive for him.

Before she came into his life.

"Come on," she says again, and he gives her a weak smile before she leads him through the crowd.

* * *

John listens as she tells him what's happened over the past few weeks. It sounds bad. Murder. Mayhem. Destruction.

"I've killed people. So many people, John, and they keep coming. And I feel like someone's been watching me. Someone...dark." She sighs, staring out the window of the cab, and he suppresses the irrational need to reach out and touch her.

She shakes her head and looks back at him. "I sound crazy, don't I? I probably shouldn't have called..."

John shakes his head and stops her. "Angela." He knows her well enough to know that she doesn't spook easily. "You don't sound crazy. Not to me."

There's gratitude in the smile she flashes him. "Midnite thought I was."

He looks at her sharply, not quite able to hide his shock. "You went to Midnite?"

"He wouldn't help me. He said that everything's in balance."

John smiles, and it's more relief than humor. "He must really like you."

Angela looks at him incredulously. "That's not the impression he gave _me._ "

"But you're here," he tells her quietly, and it's the closest he'll ever come to telling her how dangerous Papa Midnite really is.

* * *

She feels a tingling at the back of her neck as she steps out of the cab. John seems on edge, too--when her arm brushes his as they go up the steps, he stiffens.

"You feel it too, don't you?" she asks quietly, starting up the stairs inside.

He nods, his feet keeping time with hers. Their footsteps are the only sound in the stairwell and it's like the city's gone dead outside. Angela's heart is pounding, she has to fight to hide her sudden fear.

She doesn't know why she bothers--he always knows.

She sorts nervously through her keys as they stand in front of her door. John's head is tipped to the side like he's caught a scent. She's not sure what's more unnerving--feeling the thing that's been watching her or knowing that he feels it, too.

"Look out," he says suddenly, and he yanks her to the floor as she hears the familiar pop of a .22.

John's at her back, and she scrambles to draw her gun. That familiar calm comes over her, the world fades to grey and she holds the 9mm steady, aiming at the corner. She knows just when their attacker steps out; she knows just when to pull the trigger.

John sits up behind her and puts a hand on her arm. She lets out a trembling breath and holsters her gun.

"Nice shot," John says, his voice a little gruff as he stands.

"Thanks." She follows him to the body and watches him look it over clinically. There's a familiar sigil inked into the man's shoulder and a gaping hole in his chest. She can't look any further than that. Not yet.

"John, the tattoo..."

He looks up abruptly.

"I've seen it before. Drawn in blood."

His jaw tightens and he stands. "Well," he says with a grim smile, "You're definitely not crazy."

She laughs because it's better than crying.

* * *

John watches her when she's not looking, half expecting her to fall apart. He's not used to people who take these things in stride the way he does.

She helps her unit clean up and answers questions until John's ready to hurt someone. When her supervisor finally pats her on the shoulder and tells her to go, John follows her in and shuts the door behind them.

He hovers in front of the couch as she puts water on to heat. He feels strangely uncertain. "Angela."

She looks up, her face blank.

"Sit down."

She nods, swallowing--it's the first hint that she's not taking this as well as she's letting on. "I'll be right there."

He sits because there's nothing else she'll let him do, and he watches her closely when she finally joins him, clutching her steaming mug in white-knuckled fingers.

Then she starts to shake.

"Are you okay?" he tries, touching her arm lightly.

She looks at him, and he meets her eyes with an effort. He's spent a long time trying to forget those eyes.

Her voice is quiet and strained when she asks, "John, what's happening? Who are these people?"

He has to look away before he answers.

He has his suspicions--suspicions related to the sigil inked into the dead man's shoulder, suspicions related to the distinct lack of sulfur in the air--but he's not ready to voice them yet.

"I don't know," he says instead. "But I'm going to find out."

He doesn't have many connections left in L.A. But he has a feeling there's one person left who'll know what's going on.

Getting hold of him...now _that's_ going to take a little bit of work.

* * *

She knows that whatever just died in her hallway, whatever's following her, it's not a demon. The distinct lack of sulfur is a dead giveaway. What she can't figure out is if whatever is coming after her is just a symptom of whatever is overtaking the city, or if it's the cause.

Either way, she'll feel better when she knows, and John is being his usual inscrutable self. All that she knows is that he's worried--and it's just enough to scare her. She's not strong enough, yet, to really read him.

"I need to borrow some things," John tells her, and she looks up from her cup of tea.

His mouth is turned down like he's concentrating, and he's got that line between his eyebrows that she's been trying to forget since he left.

She looks away before she does something stupid, and he gets up.

"I need...salt." He's on the move, and it takes her a minute to catch up. She watches him open her cupboards.

"And sage," he says, yanking a box of kosher salt from the cupboard over the stove. "Do you have spring water?"

Angela sets down her tea. "John, what are you doing?"

He pauses for a moment to look at her. "I think I know where to start. I just need..." He turns back to the cupboard and finds a wooden salad bowl to stack the supplies.

When she hands him a bottle of spring water, he adds that to the rapidly growing pile.

"How can I help?" she asks softly.

He shakes his head. "You can't. I'll do it at the hotel."

"John." She wants to help. This is her fight, her city. "Please, let me do something."

He smiles at her, and there's more sadness in it than he's ever let her see. She feels it for a moment, a weight of sorrow that's more than anyone should have to bear.

Then it's gone, and he shakes his head again. "Not this. After...when I find out what's wrong, I'll call."

She feels cold as she closes the door behind him. She's done a lot of reading lately. He's just collected everything he needs to call a demon.

* * *

He knows she wants to help, and ordinarily he'd be okay with it. But not today. Not with this. He doesn't want her to meet his ghosts. His wrongs.

At the hotel, he carefully clears the middle of the room.

He sets the circle like he's calling a demon, but creates the circle with a mixture of salt and moistened earth instead of salt and blood. He rewrites the call as an appeal.

It still feels wrong.

The cap is the final piece--he'd found it in his apartment before he left. He still doesn't know why he kept it--he's lost too many friends to get sentimental now.

But it helps him concentrate and that reason enough for him to be grateful. A few minutes pass, and then a sudden breeze flows through the room, scattering dirt and then dropping away abruptly.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up just before he hears a heavy sigh behind him. "John, why would you cast a circle? I'm always around. Just call."

He didn't turn. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

There's a faint _shush_ of wings folding, and Chas walks into view. He shrugs. "Why not? You're always in the middle of something, John. It keeps the afterlife interesting."

John looks up into those silvery eyes. "You never were one to hold a grudge. Guess that's why you got the wings, huh?"

"Actually, I think it was more that a spot opened up. You know how it is. First come, first served." He winks and then sits on the floor, folding his legs under him. "So, what's the problem?"

* * *

Angela scrambles fearfully for her cell phone when it finally rings. "John?"

"I think it's the Spear." He sounds tired.

"The..." It's the last thing she expects. "The Spear? But, why? _How_?"

He sighs. "I'm not sure. He wasn't really clear. He just said it was related to the last job I did, here. I can't think of anything else that would have that kind of power."

Her mind is racing...she was so careful hiding it, why would it be a problem now? Is this all her fault? How does he know? Why does he sound so drained? She's afraid to think of what he did to get the information.

What he paid.

"Who? Who did you talk to, John? How do we know we can trust him?"

He's quiet, and she's not sure if she's treading ground she should be avoiding. She feels thoroughly inadequate. And scared.

Finally he answers, so softly she has to strain to hear him. "We can trust him."

She wishes she could see his face, get a feel for what's going through his mind. She feels a little lost talking to him like this. There are too many miles between them. "John...who?"

"Chas."

And now it all comes together. She knows why he sounds so exhausted. Why he didn't want her to be there.

She has her own ghosts.

"John..." She wants to tell him that she knows, that she understands, that he did what he had to do. But he has to know all that already.

She does, and it doesn't help.

"I'll be over in ten minutes," she says instead.

He doesn't say anything.

She takes it as acquiescence.

* * *

He's glad she's on her way and that scares him. He doesn't do this. He doesn't need people.

He doesn't need anything.

But when she knocks, he answers. Her dark eyes are wide and gentle, and something inside him aches. It might be because of her, or because of Chas, but he feels vulnerable and he hates it.

But he can't ask her to leave. Much as he hates it, he needs her right now.

"I'm sorry," she says softly, moving to the kitchen to put water on.

When she hands him a cup of tea, it's not the drink that keeps him warm.

She made him human again, three months ago. She made him feel. She made him want.

And now she's reminded him that he has a life ahead of him.

And he still has to decide what he's going to do with it.

"We need to go get the Spear," he tells her. "You need to move it."

She nods and reaches out, brushing her fingers along his hairline. "Tomorrow," she says.

He should protest. He should tell her it has to be tonight. But he's tired, and he needs the rest.

"Tomorrow," he agrees.

* * *

They start out early, and Angela finds herself glancing over every few minutes to make sure that John is still all right. He's been his usual distant, mysterious self this morning.

He's intensely focused as she calls a cab and directs the driver to the Church of the Blessed Sacrament.

John takes his eyes of the window for just a moment to raise an eyebrow.

She shrugs. "I thought it would be safe there."

He smiles wryly. "Maybe. I wish it worked the other way, too."

She doesn't say anything, but, secretly, she hopes he's wrong. She doesn't want to know that she's responsible for her city going to Hell.

* * *

The sun shines as they get out of the cab but John can't shake the feeling of dread that's been growing since he got off the plane. He hopes it's the Spear, because he's running out of ideas. At least if it's this, he has a fix.

They can't destroy it, but Angela can hide it again, someplace where there are less people. The idea of sending her off on her own scares him, too, but he doesn't examine it too closely. There's no one else he knows who can do it. He can buy the tickets, he can give advice...but in the end, it's up to her.

"John?"

He starts at the sound of her voice and follows her reluctantly through the huge doors.

"This isn't going to be easy," he mutters.

If Angela hears, she ignores him.

* * *

It's going surprisingly well. Angela's not sure what she expected, but it wasn't this.

Father Montenegro gives her the key to the basement with a kind smile, and she and John go down the stairs.

The Spear is just where she left it--part of a haphazard collection of artifacts the church keeps hidden down here. But, when she'd left it here, it's power was barely a hum among the artifacts. Now it's got a pulse than washes over her every second, a rush of power that ebbs and flows like the tide--clean and quiet, and infinitely dangerous.

The power itself has no direction. From what she's read, the Spear has never taken sides. Or been this powerful.

There's no question in her mind, now--the Spear is causing the chaos in the city.

John plucks it up before she has a chance, wrapping it in a silk handkerchief and handing it to her. "Put it in your bag," he says, his voice gruff.

For a moment, they're both holding it, and she's in his head. For the first time, she really understands how worried he is.

Not for the city. Not for the Spear.

For her.

* * *

John wants to believe that they've gotten through the worst of it--that now that they have the Spear, it's all over. But he's been around too long to really believe that.

Unfortunately, he's right.

The sky darkens as they hurry down the steps in front of the church, and he puts a hand on Angela's back to guide her into the cab while he looks around for the cause.

Suddenly there are crows everywhere--on the roof of the church, the edge of the sidewalk, the porch railings of the apartment building across the street--and he knows it's all gone very, very bad.

He ducks into the taxi after Angela, and they both freeze as the heroin-thin cabbie casually points a gun in Angela's direction.

"Thanks for the Spear, sweetie. Hand it over, will ya?" His smile is vicious and angry.

There's no time to do anything. John is still as Angela stretches her hand over the front seat and drops the silk-wrapped weapon at the far end of the passenger's seat.

When the cabbie reaches for it John slams his fist into the man's temple, and Angela darts forward to grab the gun.

They both scramble out of the cab, and Angela meets his eyes over the roof of the car.

"I guess you're right," Angela says, slightly out of breath. "It's _not_ going to be easy."

He smiles and moves around the cab. "Get the Spear. We need to go."

She leans in quickly and grabs it, rewrapping it carefully before sticking it in her waistband.

"He's human," she says. It doesn't sound like a question, but he knows she wants an explanation.

John knows it's only a matter of time before the puppet-master shows itself. Herself, if his hunch is correct. Someone's been whispering a little too loudly in impressionable ears...

"I think he's a servant," John tells her shortly.

"Of a demon?"

"Of a half-breed. The Spear makes them stronger. All of them--the good and the bad. And I think one of the bad ones got some ideas. Went back to her old ways...encouraged sacrifices to add to her power."

Leaves dance suddenly on the sidewalk, and the crows shift and part as a pale-skinned, red-haired woman with sharp features comes around the corner of the church, right on cue.

She always has known how to make an entrance.

"Morrigu," John breathes.

* * *

The woman is gorgeous. Her skin is smooth, with an otherworldly glow, and her eyes are huge and black, and mimic those of the crows that surround her.

Angela hadn't felt a bone-deep fear like this since being pulled through the walls of a skyscraper and being thrown through a glass ceiling. Not since John last saved her life.

She really hopes he's up to a repeat performance.

"Hello, John," the woman says. Her voice is deep and musical, and the crows flutter around her like extensions of her elaborate dress. "Be a dear and tell your friend to give me the _Lancea._ "

"I can't do that," he says, and Angela feels the Spear start to stir.

"John," she whispers urgently.

"I know," he tells her, and when he moves forward, she sees the glint of gold in his fist.

Angela draws her gun, even knowing it won't do her any good, and yanks her crucifix from her neck to wrap it around her other hand. It won't stop the half-breed, but at least she can watch John's back for him.

Unfortunately, no one has hers, and two of Morrigu's servants close on her at the same time. She manages to shoot the first in the thigh, but the second grapples with her long enough to knock the gun from her hand and grab the Spear, ripping it away and tossing it at Morrigu.

Angela catches the man in the throat with her knuckles and he goes down. She can see that John's managed to tear away the half-breed's human skin. Beneath the beautiful fascade are those same black eyes and a skeletal structure covered with black skin and tiny feathers. The woman's eyes flash red and her crows scream from just outside battle.

When the half-breed catches the Spear, Angela calls out a warning, but it's already too late. He twists away from a vicious strike and then falls.

Angela knows she can't win, but she aims and fires anyway. She hits the Spear, and it spins from the woman's grip. When she moves in and follows it up with her best self-defense moves, the Morrigu grabs her throat in a superhuman grip until she see stars.

_"Angela!"_

The Morrigu ignores him completely, but Angela comes back to herself just enough to listen to him.

_"Get down!"_

It's worthy of a snide remark, but she doesn't have the breath. In a last-ditch effort, she scrapes her thumbs along the half-breed's bristled skin and manages to find one perfect, black eye. Morrigu drops her suddenly and Angela's not sure who's more surprised--her, or the half-breed.

And then, without warning, the half-breed is engulfed in blue flames until and her screams fade into ash that falls to the sidewalk.

Angela turns slowly, just in time to see John put away a long wand.

"You couldn't have used that to start with?"

He shrugs, wincing. "Dragon's Breath is very rare. I didn't want to waste it." When he gets up he favors his left side, and Angela can see blood dripping from the edge of his coat.

"Better the Dragon's Breath than you," she says, and he smiles tightly.

* * *

He hands her his shirt and she tosses it on the arm of the couch. "Sit," she tells him, bringing a chair out from the kitchen.

He hisses as she cleans the wound with holy water. "I pulled some strings and got you some tickets. You'll have to leave tomorrow."

She nods, cleaning the wound efficiently.

He'd gotten three for each stop, 39 in all. Some might consider it a waste but there's power in numbers, and he's doing everything he can to keep her safe until she can put the Spear to rest.

If he could do it himself, he would.

She finishes putting the bandage in place, and he looks down at the heavy tape. "So, am I gonna make it?" he jokes lightly.

She looks up at him, her hand still resting on his rib cage. "I think you'll live. You need to be more careful, John."

Her fingers move gently against his ribs above the tape. He's not even sure she's aware of it.

The same can't be said for him.

He remembers the last time he was here, months ago. He remembers standing on the roof and watching the city with her beside him, close enough to touch.

He needs to stop thinking like this.

"You need to pack," he says quietly, not moving. She's still watching him intently; she looks far too innocent for everything he knows she's seen. "And sleep. You've got an early day tomorrow."

"Yeah," she breathes, her gaze never leaving his. He's not sure if he's leaned in or if she's moved up, but they're closer, and he knows he should leave. Right now. The people he cares about get hurt.

"I'll go," he says, putting a hand on her shoulder. He wants to say thank you, but he still hasn't figured out how.

"John."

It's just a name. His name. But it slides over his skin like a promise or a plea, and there's a power in it that has nothing to do with the Spear and everything to do with who she is and what she's been through.

He can fight it if he wants to, he knows, but he doesn't.

Instead, he leans forward and whispers back, "Angela."

She smiles, just barely, a soft turn of her lips before she's too close for him to see, and then he's drowning in the taste of her mouth, clean and warm like salvation.

His hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer. Her hands slide restlessly across his bare chest; heat leaps between them and makes him shudder.

He slides forward and falls to his knees in front of her, holding her face is in his hands. She opens her mouth against his and he dives in, searching and tasting desperately. He never knew how much he wanted this until now.

Angela laughs against his mouth and traces shapes against his chest, across one nipple and over old scars until he's kissing her brutally. She presses back with a need as great as his, digging her nails into his shoulders as he lays her down on the floor. She gasps when his hands splay flat along the warm curve of her back, and then he's kissing her jaw, biting gently at her throat.

John is beyond thought or reason--all he has left is the heat of her body, the slight tensing of muscles as he drags roughened fingers down her stomach and along the low waist of her jeans.

_John._

He doesn't know how she got there but suddenly she's inside his head, whispering and coaxing and gifting him with nameless secrets. There's nothing to guess at, anymore, he knows just what to do--how to touch her, how to kiss her, how to move inside her until she's crying out beneath him in an ecstasy that crashes against him like a tidal wave and brings him tumbling after.

* * *

Angela watches the runway fly by, giving way to trees and skyscrapers as the plane takes off. She has 30 tickets left in her bag. She doesn't know where she's going from here, but she doesn't let it worry her. Already, the dread that's plagued her for the last few months is fading.

In the cab, just before he kissed her on the forehead--chaste and lingering--John told her not to make any plans.

She remembers how his hands burned against her neck, his thumbs stroking her jaw with intense care. "You'll know what to do when you get there," he'd told her with absolute certainty.

She'd nodded and touched that crease in his forehead, trying to smooth away the constant worry there.

She hadn't wanted to leave, but she'd done what she had to. Now she wonders if he'll be there when she gets back.

She fingers the silk-wrapped spear through her bag and pulls it a little closer.

She hopes so.

 

 

 


End file.
